


your eyes were a different shade when we first met

by provemlovely



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blind AU, Blind Grantaire, Enjolras is emotional, M/M, also aliens apparently, eyes change color based off of mood, its an absurd au idea I know, passionate boy is passionate about life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provemlovely/pseuds/provemlovely
Summary: The sky above him is a pale pink, fading gradually into purple. He likes when the sky is that color, it had always been his favorite time of the day.Except the sky could be orange for all he knows—or maybe it was still blue. The sky used to be blue he remembered that. He remembered its exact shade, still vibrant in his dreams. He had painted it so many times before... his hands itched at his sides. When was the last time he touched his paints?————Au where your eyes change colors with your mood





	your eyes were a different shade when we first met

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I wrote this like a year ago and honestly have no idea where I got the idea for it because it’s a little absurd but I like it

"Aren't you ever afraid you're gonna fall?" An amused voice said somewhere to Grantaire's left but he doesn't look, just shrugs. He's not, not really. He's done this too many times to be scared. Any initial fear or exhilaration he felt before was replaced only by a sense of cam.

The top of their apartment building was once a beautiful garden, but now only filled with dead plants and overgrown weeds. It was usually quiet as no one bothered to come up there anymore, they had no purpose to, especially in the colder months with the cold wind burning against their cheeks. Grantaire has been told that it was ugly up there, that it was dirty and unkept. Jehan begged him so many times to help him replace it with new plants as his landlord obviously didn't seem to care what anyone did with it. Grantaire declined every time, though, mumbling different excuses that never really made sense. Why would he want a 'beautiful' garden anyways? What could its beauty ever possibly mean to him now?

So he sits on the wide ledge, calmness in a place where most would feel only panic. His friends used to have picnics here, he remembered, they’d each bring as many blankets as they could and watch the city below them long after sunset. He wonders, suddenly, why they stopped doing so. He'd have to tell Courfeyrac later, get him to plan something again, he was always the best at planning those things— he knows all their schedules more than he can remember his own.

The sky above him is a pale pink, fading gradually into purple. He likes when the sky is that color, it had always been his favorite time of the day.

Except, the sky could be orange for all he knows—or maybe it was still blue. The sky used to be blue he remembered that. He remembered its exact shade, still so vibrant in his dreams. He had painted it so many times before... his hands itched at his sides. When was the last time he touched his paint?

His eyes stay closed, he finds that he can't will himself to open them. He'd much rather feel the wind on his face, hear the rustle of leaves and the faint sound of cars and buses down below. He just... doesn't want to remind himself, not yet. Just a few more moments of ignorance, please. He could never fool himself so easily, not in the slightest. He can try though, and he does.

"What color is the sky?" Grantaire's voice is slightly scratchy and he licks his dry lips. _There_. He said it. He scrunches his nose and looks down, he feels embarrassed.  
  


But an arm brushes against his own as he feels the other sit next to him; then it’s back, the calmness. Once again it’s just Grantaire, the wind, the leaves, the cats, and _him_. Just one person who can make all his terrible feelings go away just by their presence. 

"Pink. Nearly red it's so bright now," Enjolras responded quietly, Grantaire feels the other man's fingers just barely brushing against his own, hesitation, "it's pretty for now, sure, but in less than half an hour it'll be dark again." there was something else in his voice Grantaire couldn't decipher, he wanted to ask what he meant. To ask Enjolras what color _his_ eyes were now, if they've changed. If he opened them would he see. (He wouldn't).

"Why are you here," He says instead.

"Because I want to be, R," he responds with a desperate sounding laugh, and there it was again. That nickname. That stupid nickname that made him laugh the first time they met. At that meeting that made them both so angry but Grantaire kept coming back. He learned, over time, to just listen. It amazed him then and it still amazes him now how open they all were, how they talked so freely. And then when he did speak, they listened to him.

He always came back. He always came back and he always found a way to argue with the man afterwards. He didn't know why it mattered so much to him, why he sought a fight before a conversion like normal people did. (But Grantaire wasn't normal, he couldn't ever be normal.)

For some reason, though, Enjolras never argued back when they weren't inside those Café's doors. They would exit the Musain and Enjolras would speak as if they hadn't torn each other to peaces just minutes ago. Grantaire found it annoying at first, but years later, he found that it was because Enjolras was his friend. They didn't hate each other, they never did. No argument was ever as real is it used to feel.

Enjolras had lived in Paris his whole life, Grantaire for barely five years. As soon as he turned 18 he left home and never looked back. Home was too overwhelming. It had too many memories, too many horrible memories.

But here, here he had good memories. Here, he was able to replace his bad ones one by one.

And he remembered meeting Enjolras most of all.

—

_Grantaire had been complaining to Éponine for 10 minutes before they arrived at the café. She was a childhood friend who insisted on taking him to 'meeting' to introduce him to all her friends. Assuring him, far too many times (although not enough for him to believe her), that no one would care about his eyes._

_His eyes._

_And their dullness._

_His blindness._

_His eyes that couldn't change color in a world that focuses so much on it. His eyes that would never know what others felt; he could never trust what others told him. They didn't work like they were supposed to. They didn't work at all._

_Éponine ignored his complaints and opened the door wide, tugging on his arm and leading him inside. She was walking quickly, something he always had to remind her to stop doing because he can't see damnit! He immediately felt on edge. There were loud voices echoing from the back corner of the café but they sounded cheerful. There was laughter and jokes being yelled across the room._

_Éponine whistled loudly when she led Grantaire towards the voices, making Grantaire flinch as his ear was right by her, and she waited until it was quieter. He could hear the grin in her voice, the fingers_ _around his arm tightening. She's excited._

_"This is the friend I've been telling you all about, Grantaire!" She said it with so much enthusiasm Grantaire wished he could see her. Her eyes were probably yellow now... the joy definitely made them yellow. He wondered how she looked now versus when they were young._

_But then he began to wonder if he could even remember, fully, what she used to look like. He could hardly remember what he himself looked like at times. It made him panic one night, a year ago, when he woke up, unable to breathe, as he called Éponine to ask her if she had faint freckles on her cheeks or not. (She does, and he had cried when he hung up, realizing he had already forgotten)._

_He heard a chorus of 'hello's' and suddenly a laugh that could barely be heard over the voices attempting to introduce themselves all at once._

_"My god look at Enjolras' eyes!" The owner of the laughter's voice said through a grin (he learned later that the voice was Bousset). The man who said it was close to Grantaire, and apparently the only ones who heard it had been he, Éponine, and the man in question._

_Enjolras. He's heard about him from Éponine. The charismatic leader who had enough hope and passion to single-handedly save the world. He wondered, for a moment, what color the boy's eyes had been and found himself wishing he could see._

_But then the meeting started, Grantaire listening as Enjolras spoke of a future filled with kindness. As he spoke of a world full of love. As he spoke of a life without pain._

_A world that can never be._

_So Grantaire found himself voicing his own opinions, unable to hear this seemingly perfect man speak of a world so pure. The world is not good. The world is full of assholes and bullies and cruel, cruel people. People who take one look at people like Grantaire and hide them away, shield their children from him as if he was a monster. The world is terrible, the people are so far from good._

_So they argued, he felt a hand on his arm (surely Éponine's), but he ignored it. Ignored it in favor of arguing with the man full of fire in front of him._

_He didn't need eyes to see that Enjolras was one of the most beautiful people he'd ever met. Grantaire stopped measuring beauty with looks ever since the accident. He began to measure beauty in other ways. He measure it in their laughter, the sound of their voice, how they treated their friends, how they treated strangers. He could hear the man talk with more eloquence than anyone he's heard before. The man in front of him overflowing with love of others, overflowing with his love for strangers in a world who was too self absorbed to love him back. Enjolras was indeed beautiful._

_He spent two hours there meeting the entire friend group. He loved them, they were funny and kind and welcoming. No one said anything about his blindness. No one treated him any different. He made plans with Jehan to visit his apartment to meet his cats (Jehan was very adamant about all his friends meeting his cats). Bahorel and Combeferre had both given him a list of obscure podcast recommendations. Joly rambled to him for twenty minutes straight about butterflies when he saw one of Grantaire's tattoos peaking from his collar and he found it extremely endearing. Cosette had gushed about his hair and demanded he tell her what products he used to keep it from frizzing. He had eleven new numbers in his phone by the end of the night._

_To his surprise, even Enjolras had come up to him and they somehow found themselves in a conversation about the possibilities of alien life. That conversation alone took about half the time he spent there but he couldn't find it within himself to regret it. As they talked, he realized Enjolras was just as human as anyone else there and he was a complete dork who believed in_ aliens _._

_Éponine had basically dragged him away from the meeting. Everyone realizing the time and also making excuses and quick goodbyes as they left the Musain._

_When Éponine walked home with Grantaire later in the evening she leaned towards him and whispered._

_"His eyes were pink by the way."_

_Grantaire felt his eyes water, a hint of a smile on his face_.

—

"Complete strangers- usually little kids- always ask me why I'm always sad—"

"R—"

"And I want to laugh- because they're _kids_ , and they don't know. Then their parents grab them by the arm apologizing repeatedly before dragging them away."

"R, please—"

"Maybe I am always sad though. Have you ever thought of that? My eyes may be the wrong kind of foggy blue but it's close enough. It _hurts_. You know I'll never see my friends. The only one I've seen before was Éponine and even then it was so long ago." He coughed and sucked in a breath before rubbing his eyes. He felt tears. "I won't know what Jehan's hair looks like when he ties it up instead of leaving it down. I wont know what Combeferre's moth tattoos look like or just how ugly Courfeyrac's bow ties apparently are. I'll never be able to join in when you all make fun of Marius's blush. I'll never get to see any of you. I don't have a clue what you look like— and do you know how hard it is to imagine what you've _never_ seen?"

Enjolras didn't bother interrupt this time, he noticed. But then Grantaire feels something reach for his hand softly, slowly. Fingers dancing across his own tentatively.

Grantaire shifts his hand and his fingers curl around his own. This is new. He takes a deep breath.

"When we first met... Éponine told me your eyes were pink." He felt Enjolras' hands stiffen.

"And she told me at the end of every meeting after, what color they were... you're so passionate about everything," Grantaire continues and laughs softly although he isn't sure if he feels any humor, "you do nothing by halves."

—

_"Blue. They were dark blue the whole time."_

_"Wait—what?"_

_"Didn't waver once, not even when Courfeyrac fell out of his chair."_

_"There's no way," Grantaire shook his head. After every meeting Éponine told him the color of Enjolras' eyes. They had never been blue before. Never. The closest he had ever been to anything that wasn’t anger or joy had been the dark green of regret after a protest gone wrong about two months ago. That enough had caused the whole group to worry but now they were blue. Now his eyes are blue and everything feels off balance._

_"Go talk to him." She said simply._

_"What? Why me? What about Courf or Ferre—"_

_But she shoved him away. Which he hates and they've established long ago that it's not fucking allowed because he's a blind man. He knows the café well now, as long as chairs or tables aren’t moved around he can walk around easily; but when someone pushes him away he loses all sense of direction, for a moment he forgets which way the door’s in and the panic sets in._

_So he stumbled and stood up deathly still. His heart begins to hammer in his chest. The café is quiet, where is everyone else? He doesn't dare move, only his chest rising and falling alarmingly fast._

_"R?" Enjolras._

_"Where’s ‘Ponine?” Grantaire asks but he knows the answer. Damn her._

_"She.... she just left," a pause, he hears footsteps on the wooden floor, “it's just us left."_

_But then Enjolras just grabs his arm softly and leads him slowly in a direction Grantaire assumes is the door. This is common. If Éponine doesn't walk him home after a meeting the last person there does without being told to. But it had never been Enjolras._

_"Why are your eyes blue?" He could hear Enjolras' jacket move, the noise assumingely being him moving to look at Grantaire sharply. The hand around his arm tightened but Grantaire didn’t miss how if he dropped it just a little lower they’d be holding hands._

_"How do you know?"_

_"Someone told me."_

_“Right,” his voice held a strange tone._

_There was a long silence. All Grantaire could hear was traffic on his right side and their shoes against the side walk. All he could think was_

_Ifuckedup.Ifuckedup.Ifuckedup.Ifuckedup.Ifuckedup.Ifuckedup.Ifu—_

_"My aunt's in the hospital." Enjolras whispers, “I got a call this morning from my uncle and she's not gonna make it, but I can’t fly home or I’ll lose my internship before it starts.”_

_Grantaire stops walking, he feels the tug on his arm from Enjolras who continued but stops when he notices Grantaire not following him. He heard the pain in the blond's quiet voice and it was heart shattering. Enjolras' parents died when he was a child, and he went straight to his aunt's care. She raised him alone. His uncle had married her when he was in high school._

_She was a piece of his only family._

_"All your friends are here for you. We're always here for you," Grantaire tried. Why does he feel at such a loss of words? Why is it so hard to say what he wants to? Nothing feels like enough. He just wants to hug him and continue to hold him until all the bad in the world disappears._

_"I know," Enjolras said quietly, "and I love you all for it." Then he moved his arm to go around Grantaire's shoulders, pulling him closer as the walked side by side. Grantaire couldn't bring himself to mind._

_When Éponine opens the door to their apartment to let him in, she waves to Enjolras and waits for him to leave before grabbing Grantaire's hand._

_"His eyes were a soft yellow," she says into his ear._

_Grantaire felt a sudden rush of happiness._

—

"What color are your eyes" Grantaire brings himself to ask. He doesn’t know what’s setting him so on edge. But he does know.

Because just two hours before he had been laughing with his friends in his apartment when he tripped over something in the corner of his living room. He heard the sharp intake of Éponine’s breath as he reached down and felt the scratchy canvas beneath. He’d forgotten. _No_. He never forgot. He had ignored it.

He wondered which painting it was, wondered if it was finished or barely worked on. When was the last time he painted anything at all? The last time he sketched on paper? The last time he mixed colors on his pallets. He even found himself missing the smell of turpentine that made him feel so dizzy.

He _can’t_ paint. Not anymore. How had he ignored it for so long? His hands were shaking as they set the canvas down and left the apartment, walking up the stairs to the rooftop.

What do you do when you realize you are now incapable of doing the _one_ thing that gave your life purpose before.

You panic and start asking invasive questions apparently.

"R, I don't—" Enjolras starts.

"Tell me."

He could hear him sigh and squeeze his hand lightly. It's silent for a moment, Grantaire reminded once again of the calmness in the sounds of Paris’s streets at night.

"They'd be red. Undoubtedly they'd be so red it'd hurt to look at. The type of red that'd make people doubt their own partner's love for them," Enjolras' voice was shaking.

Red. Deep love.

"Me too," he whispers.

"What?" Enjolras breathes.

Grantaire doesn't respond, he just reaches up. His hand finds his curls and finds his chin, turning his head to look at him. His fingers brush along his jaw, his ears, his neck.

He could feel Enjolras smile, his cheeks scrunching near where they meet his eyes. He must have reached out his hand because then it’s holding Grantaire’s, fingers interlaced.

The man in front of him wore his heart on his sleeve. He realized, then, didn't need eyes to see love. 

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly wrote this to figure out character dynamics and friendships studies without actually explaining them in a way? I tend to ramble when I write and over explain things so I tried to work on doing that less.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this very short au :)


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